


Hamilock: The Fake Frenchman and the Clearly Gay Doctor

by lemoncellbros



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoncellbros/pseuds/lemoncellbros
Summary: After an incident involving Sherlock Holmes leaving his "sugar" on the counter, John Watson and Sherlock are forced into a drug induced dream to solve a mystery involving the Founding Fathers. Sherlock and John are forced to face their feeling for each other, just as Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens are.





	1. Chapter 1

The minute he noticed the carriages, Sherlock knew he’d been hitting the hard stuff again. Sherlock honestly didn’t know what he’d taken, but he was low and missing John, so he might have snorted an egg for all he knew. But, him being the logical, deductive genius that he was, he figured his first priority should be to figure out where he was. 

Sherlock took quick inventory of his surroundings, logging horse-drawn carriages and linen waistcoats into his Mind Palace. But the thing that really tipped him off was the huge, starred and striped flag hanging over a pub. There were thirteen stars in a circle in a blue square among the red and white stripes. Sherlock was definitely curious as to how he had ended up in the 18th century American colonies, but knowing himself it probably had something to do with an unsolved mystery.

Now to find out which colony he was in. He tapped a man walking past on the shoulder. 

“Excuse me, do you know which colony I’m in? I seem to have amnesia.”

“Amnesia, sir?” The man seemed confused. Sherlock mentally slapped himself, having discounted the fact they didn’t have the knowledge we do today.

“Let me rephrase, memory loss. Amnesia’s a French term.” He altered his accent to have a French lilt. “That’s where I’m from, monsieur.”

“Ah, I see! Well good sir, you’re in the colony of New York!” The man spoke jauntily, proud of his home. 

Sherlock nodded and thanked him, deciding to head into the pub to get a grip on what year he was in. On his walk to the nearest pub, which appeared to be a low-class establishment, he made a mental note of the most important aspects of his environment in an effort to formulate an accurate year.

Upon entering the pub, Sherlock was instantly hit with the rancid smell of fecal matter and unwashed men. Sherlock took special notice to the smell of feces as he could find a closer year estimate due to their lack of washrooms, having discarded their waste in the streets. Delightful. 

As he entered, three young men dashed past him and towards the man he’d seen earlier, sitting at a table alongside a younger companion with the same determined glint in his eye that Sherlock had first noticed when he’d met John. He heard one of them say, 

“Aaron Burr, sir…” and he immediately cringed. Sherlock had a very good guess as to where he was, the name Aaron Burr instantly setting alarms off in his brain. 1776, New York City. That must mean…

“I AM THE A-L-E-X, A-N-D, E-R….” Ah, yes. Alexander Hamilton. Somehow, someway, the cocaine had landed Sherlock in America during the time of the Founding Fathers. Sherlock strode over to the table the young men occupied, halting abruptly at the side of the man he knew to be Alexander Hamilton.

“Pardon me, are you Alexander Hamilton, sir?” Sherlock retained the French accent, squinting suspiciously at the man he assumed was Marquis de Lafayette. The 19-year-old future Secretary of Treasury looked up at him with delight. 

“You know who I am?” 

Sherlock nodded nervously. “Yes, of course! Your story about the hurricane was deeply moving.” 

Hamilton grinned and bounced to his feet, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own and shaking it enthusiastically.

“Yeah, that’s me! And you are?” Sherlock saw Lafayette eye him curiously, as if trying to remember if he’d seen him in France.

Sherlock bowed his head respectfully in greeting. “I am Sherlock Holmes of France.” Marquis de Lafayette narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

“That is an unconventional name, for a French immigrant,” Lafayette’s accent was much more fine-tuned than Sherlock’s, making his seem a lot more fabricated. Another man slapped Sherlock on the back and handed him a pint of beer. 

“Ah, c’mon Laf, you’re just being suspicious. I’m sure this guy is just as trustworthy as Hamilton. Have a round with us! I’m John Laurens.” 

Sherlock smiled his thanks at John, making his way to the side of Hamilton, seating himself between him and Burr. Sherlock was aware of the turmoil between these two Founding Fathers, but they were also the most prominent of the bunch and most likely to help Sherlock with his mystery, whatever it was.

Hamilton threw back a shot and watched as people passed by and ordered drinks with a brave, slightly hungry expression, like he was waiting for the right moment to climb above them. Burr was watching him warily, unsure what to make of the newcomer. As for Lafayette, Laurens, and Mulligan, they were, according to Sherlock’s incredible deduction skills, drunk off their asses.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “So, what brings you guys around? It seems an odd time to settle here.”

Understandably drunk but unendingly enthusiastic, the man Sherlock knew to be Hercules Mulligan raised his glass to Sherlock. “Ay, we’re here for the war!” He wiggled his eyebrows at Laurens, “and the ladies!” John rolled his eyes and glanced at Hamilton.

Sherlock smiled at these men, taking a sip of his brew. He decided to sit back and observe them, to get a feel for their temperaments and relationships. Sherlock was especially infatuated with the dynamic between John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton, as they seemed almost reverent of one another. They shared knowing glances frequently, and Sherlock could have sworn he observed them engaging in ‘footsie’ beneath the table. At one point, Hamilton caught Sherlock looking and winked at him. 

The friendship, or maybe more, reminded Sherlock of his with John. Sherlock felt a pang of sadness somewhere inside him, missing his companion and friend. Sherlock had never had time to determine what was happening between him and John, but it always felt intimate, maybe not physically, but emotionally. Sherlock resolved that he would find some space, someday, in his vast mind, for John. But for now, he focused on the five men in front of him, watching as the sun set outside the window and the drinks poured from glasses.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to General George Washington, pissed.

John Watson blinked and opened his eyes. Above him was a white canvas fabric, stained with dirt and what looked suspiciously like blood. 

He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, and the ground beneath him felt like wet grass protected by a thin layer of straw. A man suddenly came into view. He was wearing one of those weird triangle hats like in the Revolutionary War, and he looked down at John in a concerned manner, even though John could’ve sworn he’d never met him in his life. 

“Are you awake?” The man asked. John stared up at him. In the background, he heard a man say, “General Washington, the bandages” and the sound of footsteps leaving. John groaned.

Sherlock, you utter cock.

Earlier that morning, John had been in 221B, peacefully making coffee, and had poured what he thought was sugar into it. Apparently, Sherlock had been on the drugs again, and now, so was he. John was seriously considering cutting sugar out of his diet completely. George (fucking hell) Washington dabbed a wet cloth on his face and placed a bandage on his head, where John was suddenly aware of a throbbing sensation. He blinked again and stared up at him, deciding to go with it.

“General?” 

Washington breathed a sigh of relief and told a man beside him to write a letter to Congress eliminating one of the casualties from the last battle. 

“Doctor Watson. Are you alright? Can you stand?” 

John sighed. This was an exact repeat of his time in the Fusiliers. He nodded and sat up. 

“I think so, sir.” 

The general gently pulled him to his feet. John winced. Nothing more than the typical twinging in his leg. He could handle it. Washington slung an arm around him to support him and helped him walk outside of the tent, where men in Revolutionary War uniforms ran back and forth, passing guns to one another and swigging enormous mugs of beer. John glanced up at the General. He didn’t seem to be concerned by the fact that his soldiers were most certainly going to go into battle drunk. Then John remembered that alcohol was cleaner than water in the time he was in. 

“Sir, where are the British forces?” 

Washington looked down at him with a confused expression. “Watson, you’ve known that for days. Nothing has changed. They’re still in New York.” 

John nodded. New York, Revolutionary War. Good to know. He wondered if Sherlock was experiencing the same insane fantasy. If he saw him, he was going to kick his arse. 

 

Sherlock sat with his five new acquaintances, dearly missing John at this point. While these men were loud and quite drunk, John was always a quiet companion who stayed by Sherlock in times of thinking and his times of hardship. Occupied with his pining, Sherlock didn’t even notice his revolutionary counterparts standing.

Laurens smiled kindly at Sherlock. “Do you have a place to stay?” 

Sherlock inclined his head, “No, I have just arrived here. I have not found a place to stay yet, or where to employ my skills.”

Laurens quirked an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Skills?”

“I have a certain skill set best employed in the investigative side of military affairs.”

Laurens smiled at this, “Well, if it’s a job in the military you want, I have a good relationship with someone who might be able to get you in. You are certainly welcome to accompany us to our base, and stay with us until you are situated.”

“You’re very kind, Monsieur Laurens. It would be my honor to accompany you.”

All of them stood from their seats, clamoring noisily over to the door at the front of the pub. Sherlock followed quietly behind these men, who had trusted him so readily, to wherever they hoped to take him. A military base of some kind. They strode across roads paved with cobblestone, littered with horse dung, walking to the melody of hooves against stone. 

They walked for quite a time, finally arriving at their destination. What looked to be a field without grass was instead filled with hundreds of white, canvas tents. Men were strewn everywhere, some working on drills or exchanging weapons, others playing cards and downing various types of alcohol. Sherlock’s eyes wandered over the camp, searching for the most important structures.  
Only three things caught Sherlock’s eye specifically; Deep trenches dug around the camp, smelling suspiciously like a latrine. Holes filled in in patterns that looked way too much like a graveyard. And finally, a very large canvas tent with two men guarding the tent flap. Clearly, a very important building. Sherlock silently followed these men through the camp, halting alongside them when they stopped in front of the largest tent. 

 

John spotted Sherlock coming from a mile away. His overly confident strut and his curly hair stuck out amongst the other dark figures running past. John didn’t even hesitate. Once he and five other men reached the tent, all hell broke loose. John freed himself from Washington’s grip and pounced on Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. The other men cried out and pulled John off of Sherlock. He fumed.

“He’s my best friend, let me pummel him!” 

A man with a messy black ponytail and the start of a stubble on his chin pushed John back. 

“Leave him alone, he’s our friend and he already said he just arrived, so you’re a liar.” 

Sherlock stood abruptly, raising his hand to speak. “Actually, this man is telling the truth. John, hello. I know Dr. Watson from an investigation back in France, where he assisted me in a rather curious case involving the colour pink. We have been in touch since then, it appears I forgot to inform Dr. Watson of my arrival.”

John glared at him. “You left your sugar on the counter.” He saw the other men glance at each other in confusion.

Sherlock snorted so loudly that a few men actually jumped. “Oh my god, John! You’d think you’d have learned by now, yet you still surprise me.” 

Instead of Sherlock’s usually condescending tone, his voice was laced with joy and laughter, and the slightest hint of something else John couldn’t quite place.

The man with the ponytail and intelligent eyes bowed to General Washington, who was still behind John and looking very confused. 

“Who are you, young man?” Washington asked. 

The man was practically jumping up and down with excitement. “Alexander Hamilton, sir.” John gaped open mouthed at Sherlock. 

Sherlock gave him a curt nod in response. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was officially going sugar free.

“John, might I request a moment of your time?” Sherlock nodded towards a secluded corner. A different man with curly hair and an abundance of freckles looked at him strangely.

“Dude, I barely know you.” Sherlock grinned at him.

“Excuse me sir, I apologize. I was speaking to Dr. Watson.” John nodded at the other mysterious freckled John and went over to the corner, folding his arms in frustration.

Once they were out of view, Sherlock seemed to melt, with his shoulders losing their usual stiffness and his expression dropping. John felt himself loosen up a little as well. He gave Sherlock an awkward smile and let his arms fall to his sides. 

“John, I am dearly sorry. I was simply experimenting and it seems some of my ingredients were left on the counter. I’m just . . . so glad you’re here, John.”

John hid a blush by facepalming and stared at Sherlock once he felt it go away. “Experimenting? Is that code for snorting cocaine now?” 

Sherlock wilted a bit. “I was trying to find the effects of substances like cocaine on the quality of deduction at crime scenes, when I slipped. Honestly, I’m really not sure why.” 

John was almost shocked by the earnest expression on Sherlock’s face, and the honesty he was displaying. He sighed and gave him the slightest sliver of a grin. 

“Alright, fine. But as soon as we get back, I am hiding your stash.” He shook out his arms, exhaled, and made eye contact. “Now, I assume we’re here to solve another historical crime that you couldn’t let go?” 

Sherlock was so delighted with John’s forgiveness that he launched into a full explanation of every theory he’d come up with for the possible mysteries they were trying to solve. He spoke fast and made lots of hand motions, pacing around the small space as he spoke. John smiled. This was the Sherlock he knew. Even in colonial era New York, he was the deductive genius of urban legend.

John held his hands up in a manner to communicate he didn’t know what was going on. Sherlock automatically slowed down, catching his breath. He finally stopped pacing in front of John, and his expression switched to something John had never seen on his face before. Of his many years of experience with Sherlock, John truly could not tell what he was feeling. John could never tell what Sherlock was thinking, in his ever expanding mind of his, but he could always tell what he was feeling. This was the exception.

“John.” Sherlock’s face was one someone looking in from the outside might have said was of love. His eyes were soft, their usually sharp blue turning into a deep pool of water, calm in the face of John. The lines that usually adorned his face, carved from years of worry and trauma, seemed to lessen. A small smile tugged at the edges of his mouth, a rarity from the like of Sherlock Holmes.

Yes, from the outside looking in, it looked like love. But to John Watson, that clueless motherfucker, this was simply a curiosity. 

“John,” Sherlock repeated. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

And then Sherlock did something truly curious. He placed his hands on the sides of John’s face, only for a second. John cocked his head to the side, his cheeks tingling from the contact. He might have asked what that meant, but they were interrupted by the one and only Hercules Mulligan. He walked up to them, popped up in between Sherlock’s arms, looked back and forth between them, and said, in the most deadpan voice John had ever heard;

“Would you two stop eye fucking please, we’re trying to fight a war over here outside of your romance novel.” 

Sherlock was taken aback at this man, but let his hands drop to his side and strode swiftly back to his place next to the large tent. John turned red and stared at Mulligan. He gave John an overdramatic wink, said “I had to tell Laurens and Hamilton the same thing earlier” and walked back over to the group. John stuttered and took a minute to collect himself. Then, cheeks burning and grateful for the darkness, he ran back over to the men.

All of the men were engaged in separate conversations. Mulligan was speaking excitedly to Lafayette, who was eyeing John and smiling mischievously. John quickly looked away to see Hamilton, Sherlock, and General George (holy shit) Washington speaking in what seemed a fairly civilized manner.

John cleared his throat. “Erm, General Washington.” 

The general turned to him, his triangle hat sticking John to the spot like an arrow. “Yes, Dr. Watson?” 

“Uh, well, my friend here, Sherlock Holmes, is best equipped in investigations into difficult and seemingly unsolvable cases. Do you have anything of the sort that he might occupy himself with while he is here?”

General Washington tapped his chin thoughtfully. “I might have something of the sort. Why don’t you and Sherlock join me, along with the rest of your group, for lunch and we can discuss plans.”

John nodded and saw the rest of the men grin and high five eachother out of the corner of his eye. “Yes sir, I’d like that. In the meantime, I think these men are going to introduce Sherlock and I to the town. We’ll sleep here for the night, travel in the morning, and return by lunchtime.” John did a military salute. General Washington raised an eyebrow.

“That’s perfectly alright. Dr. Watson, you can bunk with Sherlock, Hamilton and Laurens. Sorry, but there are only two beds in the tent. You can work out the details with the other three men. Mulligan, Lafayette, you can bunk with me.” He saluted and strode off. “Evening, gentlemen.”

Lafayette and Mulligan high fived and laughed heartily, jogging after General Washington. John turned to the rest of the group with a grimace on his face. Even though it was dark, he knew Laurens and Hamilton must have been blushing. 

If he was being honest, he and those two had something in common. It seemed as if Washington knew what he was doing, because John caught a shiteating grin on his face as he turned away from them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John + Hamilton and Laurens have to share beds.

Hamilton had only spent an hour, max, in the military so far, and already it was even more embarrassing than he had thought. John Laurens, his new friend and seriously hot guy, was his roommate. Bunk mate, to be more specific. He had no idea what to do. Obviously, he didn’t wanna room with the Fake Frenchman or the clearly gay doctor, but sharing a bed with the most smashable dude in New York? 

That was a completely different story. He exhaled and faced the rest of the group.

“So, who wants to share beds?” From the look on the others faces, they didn’t seem too happy about this either. 

There was no question to Hamilton on who he’d like to share a bed with. To him, John Laurens was the ideal man. He was around the same height as Hamilton, only a little smaller, making Hamilton feel tall for once. John Laurens’ face was a work of art to him. His eyes were pools of deep chocolate, with thick lashes framing them. His cheekbones were high and strong, with freckles splashed across the bridge of his nose and his face like the constellations of stars we see in the sky. 

John Laurens was of average build, lean with a slightly hungry look to the nobby shoulders and protruding ribs. Aside from the lack of food, John Laurens was framed in muscle, and his uniform fit his figure beautifully, showing off his strong frame beneath. In conclusion, to Alexander Hamilton, John Laurens was one fine man.

Alexander realised that the other three were staring at him. He laughed nervously. 

“Sorry, what did you say?” 

The Fake Frenchman gave him an exasperated look. “I will share with Dr. Watson. You can share with Mr. Laurens.”  
Hamilton visibly relaxed. “Alright. Well, shall we bunk down for the night?”

Dr. Watson looked extremely uncomfortable, but he managed a nod. Sherlock Holmes was holding back a laugh at these men. It amused Sherlock that they could be so uncomfortable with sharing a bed, when he very well knew that he and John had shared a bed before. John coughed.

“Well, shall we get to it?” The other men made general noises of affirmation, and they walked off to their tent, labeled number 9. It was an average sized tent, approximately 5x5 in total, two small beds distributed on either sides of. Sherlock groaned. He was 6’, he was certainly too tall to lay on this bed in his normal coffin position, especially with John at his side. Luckily for the rest of them, they were well below 6 feet, and knew they would fit just fine. Laurens immediately sat down on his bed and tossed his jacket aside. It was only then that John realised that he and Sherlock were both in colonial outfits. Sherlock looked oddly small without his coat. 

Hamilton cleared his throat, took off his jacket, and laid next to Laurens, who smiled at him awkwardly and turned away from him so that they weren’t facing each other. John and Sherlock stared at the extremely small bed and then turned to face one another. 

“Don’t make me do this John,” Sherlock pretended to plead.

“It’s either that, or you sleep in the grass.” John was also pretending to be unhappy about this turn of events.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his head away in an effort to conceal his small smile. Sherlock slid his short coat off and folded it at the end of the bed. John followed his example and tucked himself under the blanket, fitting very well, because he was so small that he was practically a hobbit.

Sherlock smirked at the thought. “You see John, not all of us are house elves. How do you expect me, an average sized human, to fit in this bed?” 

John looked up at him, the angle making him seem impossibly tall, and shrugged. 

“Take contortionist classes.” 

Laurens snorted in the corner. Sherlock glared at him with impressive irritation, so much so that Laurens put his hands up in surrender. Sherlock sighed and climbed as far under the covers as his body would allow, which to say, was not much.

“Jesus, John, give me the covers I need them,” Sherlock tugged the ends of the blanket.

“No, fuck off,” John tugged the blanket back. This arguing went on for at least five minutes before Hamilton finally shouted, 

“Goddammit you two I am trying to sleep!”

Laurens fully laughed at this, as Hamilton was positively fuming beside him. It was adorable to see him so flustered, his rosy cheeks warm while he angrily admonished the two on the other side of the tent. 

“Ah, Fuck it!” Sherlock threw his hands up in defeat. 

He lifted the blanket and used his superior size to turn John over. Sherlock turned onto his side and pulled John close to himself, draping the blanket over the both of them fully. John’s heart was racing, but he decided that Sherlock was tired and probably wasn’t thinking clearly. But, he couldn’t help but savour the smell of Sherlock, of leather and cigarette smoke. John would never admit it, but he felt happy inside the security of Sherlock’s arms, he felt safe. He closed his eyes and let himself melt into his warmth.

Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing. Nonetheless, the feeling of John curled between Sherlock’s arms, of being close to John, was perfect. 

On the other side of the room, Hamilton had finally fallen asleep and had his arms wrapped around Laurens, who was desperately trying not to wake him up with his panicked gay breathing. Laurens kept his eyes fixed on a spot of dirt on the ceiling, trying desperately to calm down. Unluckily for him, Hamilton stayed like that all night, and in the morning, both of them woke up, avoided eye contact, and high fived awkwardly in anticipation of going into town.

Sherlock and John were already up and awake, having spent a few minutes just laying in one another's arms, now they were shrugging on their jackets and finger combing their hair, which was a challenge for Sherlock and his unruly curls. John chuckled at Laurens and Hamilton, then stepped outside, where Lafayette, Mulligan, and Washington were waiting with huge grins on their faces. Lafayette walked up to Sherlock. 

“Mon ami, tu as dormi avec Dr. Watson hier soir?” 

Sherlock blinked, “Oui, C’etait horrible et c’etait froid!”  
Which, for our non-French readers, means:  
“My friend, did you sleep with Dr. Watson last night?”  
“Yes, it was horrible and it was cold.”

Lafayette gave Sherlock an odd look and repeated the conversation in English to Mulligan, who grumbled and handed over a few coins to him. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at Lafayette, “Tu donnes les argents a tout le monde?” (You give everyone money?)

“Monsieur Sherlock! It was just a bet between friends.” He smiled.

“Bien Sur, I observed your suspicions of my French heritage.”

Just then, Laurens and Hamilton came stumbling out of the tent, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes and keeping a respectable distance from each other. John thought he saw Washington smirk a little. 

“Alright, gentlemen, have fun in town. I’ll see you for lunch.” 

And with that, the men took off for New York City.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Farmer Refuted gets a lot more interesting when Sherlock Holmes and Alexander Hamilton team up.

Sherlock was becoming increasingly involved with his new group of misfit Founding Fathers, listening intently as they pointed out specific things on their walk through town. Laurens and Hamilton had walked a bit closer to each other this morning, Sherlock observed with a smirk. All was well until Sherlock heard yelling coming from the square they’d just entered.

“I present to you, free thoughts on the proceedings of the continental congress!” 

Hamilton raised an eyebrow at the man on the podium. This could go two ways: he said something actually constructive, or Alexander destroyed him with words when he made an idiotic comment. He waited to see which one it would be. Hamilton’s face grew red. With anger or passion, Sherlock was not sure.

“Heed not the rabble who scream ‘Revolution’ they have not your interests at heart.” 

The man was reading from an increasingly long scroll that rolled out halfway across the courtyard. Mulligan leaned over to Hamilton and whispered, 

“Oh my god, tear this dude apart.” 

An mischievous smirk appeared on Hamilton’s face. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Off to the side, Burr let out an exasperated sigh. 

“Let him be,” Burr said.

Sherlock’s smirk turned mischievous also, and said, “You know Monsieur Burr, I think that Hamilton here has a point.”

Hamilton turned to face Sherlock, fully ready to defend the Constitution alongside the Fake Frenchman. Sherlock nodded in the direction of one Samuel Seabury, and Hamilton leapt onto the podium, cleared his throat, and let out a single,

“Yo.” Sherlock jumped onto the podium behind Hamilton. “Bonjour.”

Samuel Seabury began to speak louder, “HEED NOT THE RABBLE--” But he was overshadowed by Hamilton flying into a rant with flaming eyes directed straight at the poor farmer. He gulped. “He’d have you all unravel at the sound of screams, but the revolution is comin’! The have-nots are gonna win this, it’s hard to listen to you with a straight face.” He nodded at Sherlock to take his turn while he made his speech on Boston and all the soldiers they had lost to the war already. 

Sherlock grinned. “Good sir, I believe what Hamilton is trying to say here is that you might want to invest in a reality check flip the deck over and find yourself incorrect!” Hamilton laughed and interrupted Seabury.

“My dog speaks more eloquently than thee!” 

Sherlock stepped closer to Hamilton, “Monsieur, You’re playing a dangerous game.”  
Hamilton’s eyes glinted, “But strangely your mange is the same!” Seabury hissed and pushed Hamilton away from him, then fluffed up his own hair and straightened his posture. “I pray the king shows you his mercy.” 

“Is he in Jersey?” Hamilton smiled at the shocked look on Seabury’s face.

Samuel’s face turned a bright shade of red and he adjusted his farmer clothes. “For shame!” 

Hamilton crumpled up his paper and threw it at his feet. “For the revolution!” 

From the crowd below, the rest of the Founding Fathers joined in, readily backing their loud mouth friend. This exchange continued for some time, finally coming to a fitful end when Aaron Burr grabbed Sherlock and Hamilton off of the podium by the shoulders, claiming they were late for their lunch with the General.

With disgusted looks thrown at Seabury in parting, John, Sherlock, and the rest of their band of misfits made their way to the camp. 

 

The General was waiting for them, his face amused but firm. 

“I hear you men got into an altercation with one of the British supporters.”

Hamilton’s face went red, but Sherlock stood with confidence.

“Yes, it seemed only appropriate to heed the opposition with equal zest for life.” 

Lafayette and Mulligan snickered. Both of the Johns high-fived their respective ‘friends’. Washington smirked and turned to the table. 

“Very well. Let’s eat some stale biscuits and water, shall we?” 

John gave a horrified look to Sherlock.

“These American rations are shit!”

“Correct.” 

John groaned, but walked over to the seat Washington ushered him to. Sherlock followed behind him, taking the seat directly to John’s left and Washington’s right. They pulled some biscuits to their plates, cringing when they clanked loudly against the solid surfaces.

Hamilton looked at the biscuit like it was the best food on Earth and stuffed it in his mouth hungrily. The others stared at him. 

“Mon ami, what are you doing?” Lafayette looked at him quizzically. Hamilton swallowed and grinned at him.

"Laf, I come from the Caribbean. I just sailed on a ship with dryer biscuits than this for every meal. This,” he said, holding another biscuit like a trophy, “is basically a tiramisu.” 

Lafayette didn’t quite look like he believed that, but he let it go.

Sherlock turned to General Washington and cleared his throat, “General, I would like to know of these ‘unsolvable mysteries’ that you propositioned me about.”

John smiled. No mystery was unsolvable for Sherlock.

Lafayette squinted so hard at Sherlock that one might have thought he was sucking on a lemon.

“Are you even French, monsieur?”

Sherlock smirked and looked at Lafayette with conviction, then reciting, in perfect French;  
“Monsieur Lafayette, je sais que tu ne penses pas que je suis de France, et c’est possible que tu es correct. Mais, pour maintenant, j'espère que tu me crois.” 

Which, for our non-French speakers, means “Mr. Lafayette, I know that you don’t think I’m from France, and it’s possible you’re correct. But, for now, I hope that you believe me.” 

Lafayette raised an eyebrow at him. Hamilton, who also knew French, laughed and took another bite of his hard tack tiramisu. Lafayette was certainly suspicious of this Fake Frenchman, but no one could deny that his accent was flawless and his language skills were undeniably of French influence. Suspicious, indeed.

General Washington turned to Sherlock, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Why, exactly, do you want to know about these cases? They’ve been deemed unsolvable. Not even our best investigators were able to figure them out.”

John burst out laughing. Hard tack sprayed across the room. Sherlock smiled fully at John’s outburst, who was now frantically trying to stop laughing. The General turned to John, waited for him to regain his composure, and said, 

“Dr. Watson, why are you laughing?” 

“And covering me in biscuit.” Mulligan muttered as he wiped hard tack from his chin.

John frantically wiped his mouth as he continued to chuckle, trying to compose himself. He set his face as best he could, but a small smile still tugged at the rest of his stoic expression.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just, there is no case that Sherlock Holmes cannot solve.” As always when John complimented Sherlock, adoration lit up his face. He smiled at Sherlock, who was, as usual, trying very hard not to blush and feeling very warm inside from such high praise. John Watson, he had learned, was something of a blessing to him. 

Faces of confusion at such odd behaviour between friends were echoed around the table, except for John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton, who instead shared knowing smiles. Dr. Watson cleared his throat once again.

“Sorry, General Washington. Sherlock Holmes is the best, and I can guarantee he will solve whatever mystery you believe cannot be solved.”

Sherlock felt like telling him not to be sorry when General Washington replied.

“Well, if Mr. Holmes is as good as you say, then we’ll put him on the case of Charles Lee.” 

Gasps echoed around the table, much to John’s confusion. He’d of course heard of Charles Lee, who fought on both sides of the revolution, but he hadn’t realized it had been such a controversy.

Hamilton slammed his fist on the table. “I wanna fight that son of a bitch one day.” 

George Washington put his hand up, signaling for Hamilton to settle. He turned back to Sherlock.

“My soldier, Charles Lee, has caused great turmoil these past weeks. He was originally a member of the British Army, having moved here in 1775. He was set to work under me in his new position within the Continental Army. He was captured this year by the British Army, where he divulged many of my plans and America’s weak spots. I had harsh words with him the other day, and he has been suspended from his position. The problem here is, he has passed, and we do not know whether he was a traitor or a hero.”

Sherlock nearly clapped his hands in excitement, only barely restraining himself by politely folding his hands under his chin. John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was officially in deduction mode. 

“It is clear to me from this standpoint that Charles Lee is definitely an enigma, but I will not be able to conduct deductions at this moment until I have a crime scene to utilize, while also needing some background on this Lee.”

“He’ll also need a hat. Deerstalker, preferably.” John grinned devilishly at the angry look on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock smiled at the General and sent a scathing glare to John. John smiled and waved at him. 

General Washington seemed confused, but didn’t look like he was going to pry. “Alright, then. Dr. Watson, take Laurens and Hamilton,” and made pointed glares at them, “and Mr. Burr, back to the field of which the duel was held. Recreate the scene in perfect detail for Monsieur Sherlock. Don’t do anything dumb.”

“Too late sir, my entire life I’ve been doing dumb things, and I don’t plan on stopping now.” John Laurens said, winking at Hamilton, earning him a high five from John Watson. The General sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Just do it.” 

They nodded and headed out to the field, Laurens singing “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine” as they walked, and proceeding to list the rules of dueling to accompany it. Sherlock elbowed John.

“I do not need a hat.” 

“You really do.” John grinned as Burr looked back at them, confused.

“I don’t.”

“You do.” 

“John.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“Ugh!” Sherlock threw up his hands and trotted forward to join Burr and Laurens. Hamilton materialised next to John and high fived him. 

“Personally, I’d like to see him in a hat. His hair would look like tufts of grass growing out of the side of his head.” 

John snorted. This was definitely a drug induced dream he was having. 

The group halted in front of a fairly large field, lush grass and wildflowers littered across the expansive space. John walked to the front of the group and decided he might as well give directions, if only to let him be alone with Sherlock. 

He turned to Laurens, “You shot him?” 

Laurens nodded curtly. He pointed towards the field, “Go stand exactly where you were when you shot him.” He walked away.

John pointed at Hamilton next, then flipped his thumb back to indicate he was to go with Laurens. John turned to Aaron Burr next, who looked mildly irritated to be in their presence. 

“Where were you in relations to the shooting?”

“I was Lee’s number two, so behind him, after the negotiations.”

John gestured towards the field again, “Find your spot.”

Sherlock had been quietly standing behind John while he was ordering the men around, admiring the view. Sherlock had always had an eye for men in uniform, but John pulled it off exquisitely. He commanded the men just as he had in the Fusiliers, with confidence and power in his voice. The old military uniform certainly didn’t help, he looked exactly like the soldier Sherlock knew he was.

When John turned back to Sherlock, he had Sherlock’s favorite expression on. Privately, to himself, Sherlock called this face the ‘Captain’ look. John’s blue eyes were focused, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His mouth was set in a hard line, and you could see all the scars that lined his face, telling his story. Sherlock melted just a little inside. A soldier and his detective. 

John wrung his arms out and lost the stance of the soldier that Sherlock so liked. Instead, he wore his relaxed, listening stance that was reserved purely for Sherlock. The hard lines of his face shifted back into soft skin, his blue eyes lost their sharp focus and his furrowed brows lost their tension. John’s shoulders drooped and John dropped his arms to his sides, completely relaxed. With Sherlock.

“Why are you smiling?” John did that funny head tilt he did when he’s confused, squinting at Sherlock.

“It’s nothing John, just good to be working a case is all.”

John nodded. “Alright, then. I will be Charles Lee, and we’ll reenact the scene exactly as it happened, up to the point where Lee is escorted away for medical care. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded, and John moved to his place.

 

While John ordered the rest of them around and talked with Sherlock, Hamilton and Laurens were enjoying the sunshine and the rush of adrenaline that they’d had the first time they faced Lee. Laurens was beatboxing while Hamilton rapped out the Ten Duel Commandments. They stopped, slightly out of breath, and sat down in the grass, letting the sun wash over their faces. Hamilton looked at Laurens, peaceful and happy as always, and decided to be his usual impulsive self. 

“I’m glad you didn’t die in that duel, John.” 

Laurens turned to him and gently punched him in the arm. “I’m too cool to die, Alex. Don’t worry, no dying in duels for me.” 

Hamilton laughed and looked back over at Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, the first of which who was watching the other with a slightly dopey grin on his face. Ham could relate. Laurens waved a hand in front of his face. 

“Yo, quit spyin’ on the newbies and talk to me.”

“About what?” 

“I dunno, the war? Revolution? Freedom?” The last word hung in the air, pulled taut like an arrow on a bowstring. Hamilton sighed and picked at a piece of grass. 

“When I was living in the Caribbean, there were so many slaves. And they were treated like dirt. Hell, even my family had a slave, and we were about as poor as it gets. It just makes me think, yeah, we’re gonna be free if we win the war, but…” He sighed. Laurens nodded and patted his shoulder. 

“I get what you’re saying, Alexander. Like I said earlier, ‘we’ll never be truly free until those in bondage have the same rights as you n’ me.’ But I don’t think there’s ever such thing as true freedom. Even if someday the slaves are freed--and hopefully we get to play a part in that and have some effect--certain…certain types o’ people are always gonna get treated like dirt by society. African Americans, women…” Laurens let the sentence drop off there, but Hamilton felt like he knew what he meant. 

“Well, that’s why we’re fighting for it, John. So that eventually we all get to be free.” 

Laurens smiled and stood up. “Right. C’mon, we got a duel to reenact.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock conducts an investigation through war reenactments which results in Johnlock fluff.

Sherlock walked to the center of the circle made by John, Laurens, Hamilton, and Burr. All stood in the exact formation that they’d had the day Lee was shot. Sherlock yelled some corrections to each of them until they were in perfect alignment with the sketch Hamilton provided. 

“Alright. Begin as you did then.”

Laurens grinned and let Burr and Hamilton redo their talk. 

“Aaron Burr, sir!”

“Can we both agree that duels are dumb and immature?” Burr asked. 

“Sure! But your man has to answer for his words, Burr.” Hamilton was dangerously close to letting his anger get the best of him… again.

“With his life? We both know that’s absurd sir!”

Hamilton’s face turned cold. “Hold on, how many men died because Lee was inexperienced and ruinous?” 

Aaron let out an exasperated sigh, “Ok, so we’re doing this.”

They both returned to their positions, and Sherlock moved to the position of where the doctor might have been. Next, Laurens and John were to stand off against one another. 

John Watson stood with the grace of a man who’d been doing this a while. He retained the bitchface he almost always had, but it seemed twinged with a bit of humor, too. He held the gun as surely as he held a patient. His skilled hands fiddled with some of the locks on the gun, supposedly making sure it was locked and unloaded. The jacket around his shoulders swayed gently in the wind.

Yeah, the military attire was definitely not helping. John looked powerful, like the soldier Sherlock had always envisioned him to be. 

Sherlock felt himself blush, and quickly admonished himself for it. Why was he blushing? Thinking about John? He decided he’d have to investigate further into that later. For now, Sherlock turned his attention back to the fake duel.

Sherlock felt a pang of fear for his friend. Well, friend. Sherlock was in no means worried that John would shoot Laurens, John being a master marksman, but he was certainly worried that Laurens might shoot John. Sherlock knew the guns were locked and unloaded, but that wasn’t much a comfort to Sherlock. 

Hamilton knew it was fake. He knew the guns were locked, that they couldn’t shoot. But his panic was still getting the best of him, just like the first time. His heart was pounding, his blood was pumped full of adrenaline, and his eyes were wide open and focused on Laurens, as if keeping him in sight would keep him safe. Laurens was dancing from foot to foot, tapping his fingers on his leg and gritting his teeth. His nervous energy was there once again, and Hamilton couldn’t help but think of the stormy sky of the first time, the wind ripping through them like a sudden whip, and the cold eyes of Charles Lee boring into Laurens, ready for the kill. Hamilton silently told himself to stop being ridiculous, and his mind once again saw Dr. Watson on a sunny day, looking a bit amused at reenacting a duel he hadn’t even been part of. 

Hamilton sighed and got ready to watch them take the paces. Sherlock moved to the side of Hamilton, shuffling his fingers in anticipation.  
While Hamilton and Sherlock were nervous wrecks, the Johns were having the time of their lives. Dr. Watson was sporting a bright smile, one that could bring even Sherlock to his knees, and John Laurens had a mischievous grin and a glint of determination in his eye.

Gits.

Hamilton folded his arms and watched as the two Johns took ten paces.   
One  
Two  
Three  
Four  
Five  
Six  
Seven  
Eight  
Nine  
NUMBER TEN PACES, FIRE!

Sherlock stood stoically as the blast went off, whereas Hamilton flinched beside him. Sherlock immediately rushed to John Watson’s side, as Hamilton ran to Laurens. Sherlock found John to be just as he should have, on the ground with a mark of paint on his shirt showing where he’d been ‘shot’. 

“Stay there, John.” Sherlock looked over to where Hamilton and John Laurens were and, sure enough, John was standing, gun held high. 

Hamilton didn’t look quite as poised. He was breathing a little too deeply for Sherlock to believe he wasn’t thinking of the time someone did get shot. Laurens was talking to him as he inhaled and exhaled.   
Sherlock held up both hands in order to get attention from all participants.

Immediately he began his deductions. Aaron Burr remained at the side of Charles Lee, signaling that Lee didn’t want to be alone. Not necessarily a sign of cowardice, but not one that suggested bravery. He was also readily available with a doctor and horse for the General, suggesting that they knew the doctor they’d brought with them wouldn’t make the cut for Lee’s extensive wounds. They knew he wasn’t going to win.

One might suggest that the duel was rigged. Sherlock gestured to John to search the field for any traps, like wire or rope. He asked the others questions about the General Lee, getting mostly distasteful reactions and spit takes off to the side. That gave Sherlock all of the information he needed to figure his deductions. 

Sherlock nodded to John, their universal signal that they needed to be alone. John jogged over to the rest of the group and told them they were going back to the tent to talk about what they’d seen, and not to disturb them. Laurens gave him a suggestive wink, which quickly turned into a grimace when John gut-punched him for it. John returned to Sherlock’s side, and they returned to their tent, together.  
Upon entering, John turned to Sherlock, who very quickly wrapped him in a hug. John made a noise of confusion, but wrapped his arms around his friend. Sherlock pulled back from the hug, but held onto John’s shoulders. John quirked an eyebrow at his friend.

“I’m sorry John, I just was so worried. I don’t like seeing you shot at, even if it isn’t real.”

John gave Sherlock his kindest smile and said, “Sherlock, you do know I was in the army? I can handle being shot. Am I going to have to start implementing the buddy system so you don’t get worried?”

Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, “Buddy system?”

John rolled his eyes at his clueless genius, “It’s used in primary schools. You choose a partner to hold hands with and you’ll occasionally yell ‘buddy check’ and the children will run to find their buddy and hold hands. It’s how they avoid losing kids.”

Sherlock’s face lit up. “That’s a brilliant idea!” Sherlock grabbed his hand.

“Grab my fucking hand loser, we’re using buddy system for the rest of our lives!”

John grinned and shook his head, but he kept his hand in Sherlock’s. They settled together on one of the bunks. John sat quietly next to Sherlock as he ventured deep into his mind palace, answering random questions whenever Sherlock asked them. For the most part, they were just two guys holding hands.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dueling practice leads to so much fluff.

Hi my name is Hamilton, I’m 19, and I never fuckin learned how to FLIRT, apparently. 

Now that we’ve got the historically inaccurate references out of the way, Hamilton was screwed. Really screwed. He’d been ranting to 

Laurens about “how could you even do that duel” and “you stupid idiot you could’ve been killed” for at least twenty minutes now--remember, this is the man who talked for six hours at a convention once--, and Laurens had told him to shut up.   
Hamilton had made the INCREDIBLE mistake of saying, “Why don’t you come over here and make me?” 

Oh my god, why did he DO that?!

For a minute, the two men just stared at each other. Then, as Laurens was wont to do, he set his jaw and walked towards Hamilton, fists clenched at his side, mischievous glint in his eye.

Hamilton stared at him, internally screaming “Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit," thinking Laurens was going to punch him in the face. 

Instead, when Laurens reached the point in front of Hamilton, he grabbed his shoulders with a gentle touch. He smirked, and leaned in slowly to Hamilton’s face.

And kissed him.

Hamilton froze. He didn’t know what to do. Kiss back? The weird French tongue thing Laf was telling him about? Touch his hair? WHAT? 

Instead, he stood there for a second, frozen, before going with the first option. 

Hamilton grabbed Laurens’ shoulders possessively, kissing John back hungrily. God, he thought. He’d been waiting for this forever, but Hamilton had never considered the possibility that Laurens liked him back. Hamilton ran his fingers over Laurens’ elegant cheekbones, relishing the feel of John’s lips on his.

John was practically high in this moment. Stood in the middle of a dead   
field, was him, John Laurens, and Alexander Hamilton, kissing. John ran his hands over Hamilton’s shoulders, feeling the muscle beneath. 

The kiss was like two men dying of thirst reaching for the sea. When they were out of breath and flustered, they pulled away from the kiss with reluctance.

For a few moments, all Hamilton and Laurens could do was stare. Hamilton’s hair was visibly mussed from John running his hands through it, and John’s clothing was wrinkled and messy from Hamilton’s hands. Both of their faces burned bright red from embarrassment. 

A loud, very distinct whistle sounded through the courtyard. Hamilton spun around to see Lafayette and Mulligan applauding. 

“Incredible. Brilliant. Showstopping.” 

Laurens buried his face in his hands. “Do you get satisfaction from the pain of others, Lafayette?”

Hamilton’s face transformed at this, a smirk taking the place of his previous grimace, “Why, I thought it was quite enjoyable.”

Lafayette and Mulligan began howling with laughter, and Laurens punched Hamilton on the shoulder. Sherlock and Dr. Watson emerged from their tent to find Hamilton and Laurens bright red, Lafayette rolling on the ground, and Mulligan doubled over laughing. John raised an eyebrow. 

Sherlock sent John a knowing look, whispering his deductions quickly to him. John’s eyes widened, not with surprise at the action, more for the fact that they’d done it so soon. Sherlock clapped Hamilton on the back, but made no further acknowledgement of their kiss.

The two Johns convened to discuss, Laurens’ face growing gradually pinker as Watson tried to hide his smirk. Lafayette and Mulligan were still laughing when General Washington strode up to the six men. 

“What’s the raucous?” 

“Uh…” Hamilton glanced at Laurens, who looked like he wanted to die on the spot. “We were just sharing some stories from back home.” 

“And they were so hilarious as to make Monsieur Lafayette fall on the floor?”

“Absolutely. Laurens’ about the Puerto Rican songwriter is incredibly amusing.” 

“Indeed? Maybe you’ll have to tell me it sometime. For now, gentlemen, British Admiral Howe’s got troops on the water. We need to go fight them, no more jokes and stories until later.” 

The men nodded as Lafayette got to his feet. Washington walked away, the sound of Revolutionary War soldiers marching and cheering surrounding them. Hamilton slung an arm around Laurens’ shoulder. 

“Alright. Let’s go kick some British buttocks.” 

Sherlock and John shared an uncomfortable glance and allowed the men to lead them to the training.

 

All six men entered a dirt ring, coughing at the dust that rose from beneath their feet. Washington pointed two fingers at Hamilton and Laurens, then to one corner of the ring, and did the same to Sherlock and John, and Lafayette and Mulligan.

Sherlock and John walked side by side to their corner, arms brushing together with every other step. John turned to Sherlock.

“So… Laurens and Hamilton, huh?”

“How did you possibly not deduce?” Sherlock asked. The amount of obliviousness John possessed truly amazed him.

“Sherlock, not all of us can predict the likelihood of two men getting together in the 18th century where, I can assure you, it was illegal.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John. Just because of that doesn’t mean you can’t guess at it. Love, as I’ve demonstrated to you before, is very simple to see. Your pupils dilate when looking at your loved one, your pulse quickens, etc. Both demonstrated these signs.” 

Come to think of it, Sherlock had never seen John’s pupils that big, but he supposed it was just his physical characteristic. 

John huffed and scratched the back of his neck. “Alright, well congratulations, you’re a genius as usual. What now? I was trained in the modern army, not the Revolutionary War era.” 

“You were a doctor.”

“Once again, Sherlock, I had bad days.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his doctor, “Just do as you would in modern day. Fighting in hand to hand combat has not changed much throughout the centuries.”

General Washington called out for the men to perform several exercises that were to strengthen their muscles and loosen them up for their training. Once they had successfully push-upped their way to the top, General Washington called the men back to the center of the circle.

“Laurens, Watson, you are to engage in hand to hand combat. First one to surrender, loses.”

The two John’s circled each other as the other men stepped back, giving them some space. John Laurens suspected this John Watson was just a doctor, and nothing more, how could he be packing any heat?

Oh, how wrong he was.

The two men paced back and forth, eyeing each other like two cats on the street. John Laurens lunged at Dr. Watson first, who easily dodged his blunt attack. Using Laurens’ forward momentum, Dr. Watson grabbed his right arm, which was held out in front of him, and pulled it behind Laurens’ back.

John Watson then twisted said arm, causing pain to shoot up Laurens’ back, effectively forcing him to slump forward onto the ground. 

John Watson then simply placed his knee into the small of Laurens’ back, and waited for his surrender.

Hamilton, the absolute overdramatic moron he was, lunged forward and wrestled John Watson off of Laurens, who squeaked in surprise. 

This then caused Sherlock to jump into the dueling ring and pummel Hamilton for pummeling John, who was looking extremely miffed at Hamilton and was trying to pummel him too. Laurens didn’t want them to pummel his boyfriend, so he was desperately trying to pummel them all. That’s when Lafayette rode in on his horse, jumped off and onto the pile, and knocked them all to the ground. Over in the corner, General Washington facepalmed.

Hamilton screamed, “Don’t kill Laurens!” 

“I wasn’t trying to kill him, you thick git, it’s called dueling practice for a reason!” John retorted, gritting his teeth and glaring at him. Sherlock stepped between them.

“Exactly what John was saying. Hamilton, there was no need to--”

“THEN WHY DID YOU COME IN AND TRY TO KILL ME TOO?!” Hamilton shouted, his New York accent distinctly more pronounced when he was angry. The next thing the soldiers knew, it had turned from training practice into a shouting match, and General Washington looked like he wanted to go back to Mount Vernon. 

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you automatically assume we are out to kill you? I was simply defending John, of whom you jumped without notice.”

“And I was simply defending my John, of whom your John also jumped.” Hamilton couldn’t see it, but both Johns were blushing at being called ‘my’ and ‘your’. 

Sherlock threw his hands in the air, “THEY WERE PRACTISING YOU ABSOLUTE COCK, WHAT DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND ABOUT THIS CONCEPT?”

John nodded his approval at the insult while Hamilton turned into a raging fire of a Founding Father.

“WELL FORGIVE ME FOR NOT WANTING YOUR LUNATIC BOYFRIEND TO KILL MY BOYFRIEND!” 

Sherlock stuttered in shock. “He--he isn’t my...y-you, MISTER HAMILTON I MUST OBJECT!”

The Johns were looking in on this endeavor with equally horrified looks. They stared at each other in shock, then at Hamilton and Sherlock, and then back at one another. Lafayette and Mulligan were one billion percent done with the lot of them. 

It was at this point that Dr. Watson decided to step in, as he was sure Sherlock might start deducing Hamilton and revealing all of his life secrets. He stepped up into the space between Sherlock and Hamilton, placing a calming hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and sending a bracing glare at Hamilton.

“You two, I can’t even, oh my go-” John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and dragged him away, leaving the rest of the group fuming.

John pulled Sherlock into their tent and folded his arms.

“Are you bloody kidding me? That was ridiculous and you know it.” 

“John, I was simply defending you, when that man came in and started yelling!”

“I was fine. I could’ve taken both of them, you didn’t need to step in. It makes us look like…” John stopped. He was too afraid to say the rest.

Sherlock’s face softened, “Like what, John?”

John’s heart was pounding. “Like what Hamilton said, Sherlock. Like… that. You know.” The words were being forced out more deliberately now. John did not want to mess this up, in case he was wrong. You could never tell, with Sherlock.

“Boyfriends, John, boyfriends.” Sherlock offered the word casually.

John chewed on the inside of his lip. “Yeah, boyfriends, and these men don’t even know us, and they’re thinking that, and it makes me wonder, Sherlock. About things. Like what we look like to other people.”

“And would boyfriends be so bad, John?”

“No.” It came out quietly, not really a whisper, more like a confession. 

Sherlock stepped closer to John, lowering his head to John’s level. “No?”

John shook his head.

“Then, why John, do you detest it so?”

“I…” John sighed and looked Sherlock in the eyes. “I don’t detest it. And that’s the problem. Because I don’t know if you detest it. And I don’t want to do anything that’s… that’s wrong.” 

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s cheek and smiled softly. “Oh, John. I don’t detest it. Never could I detest anything with you in it, John.”  
John let himself relax. This was Sherlock, he could trust him. 

“Would the opposite of detest apply to how we feel about each other in this situation? In all situations, really.” 

“I believe the word you are looking for, John, is love. And I would say it does apply, if you asked me. But I have always been the brain here, John. You are the heart, so what do you say?”

John smiled a little and tilted his head. “I’d say it applies.” 

Sherlock had a fond look on his face, and tilted his head, just as John did. He leaned ever so slowly towards him. John felt butterflies swarm in his stomach. He followed Sherlock’s example. 

“This is okay?”

“Of course, John.”

“Good.” John smiled and kissed him. And it was everything he always hoped it would be.

Sherlock pulled John close to him, his solid form comforting Sherlock. John had always been curious about Sherlock’s curls, and he figured he might as well go for it. John ran his fingers through the thick brown locks, reveling in the softness of them. Sherlock seemed to purr like a cat at the contact, arcing into the touch.

They kissed for what seemed an eternity, but could have only been a few minutes. After pulling away softly, they stared at each other. 

John looked at him, considering. “How long have you been wanting to do that?” 

“Too long, John, too long.” Sherlock caressed John’s face.

John felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “The feeling is mutual.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though Sherlock and John have solved their romantic tension, they now must consider why they're still in the Founding Father Era.
> 
> Sorry this chapter is so short!

Hours after John and Sherlock’s kiss, they lay on their shared cot, John sighing happily in Sherlock’s arms. They sat in comfortable silence for a time, until John finally spoke, glancing curiously up at Sherlock.

“Sherlock, why are we still here? Did we not solve the case?” 

“I’m not so sure, John. I’ve been sitting on that Charles Lee case for weeks, at least.”

John groaned. “Are you joking? I want out of here, now that we’re actually out of denial.”

“Though I have been waiting for you to move past the denial stage, I do not believe it's why we are here.”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock…”

“What is it, my dear Watson?”

“This is ridiculous. This bloody case, these idiotic men who are half drunk all the time, George fucking Washington. How did you manage to think this up? Surely you must’ve been doing something to trigger it.” 

Sherlock smiled with admiration at John, “Perhaps, I did find that Hamilton soundtrack quite catchy. I digress, you mustn’t worry John, I’ll think of something.”

“We better not be here too long. I don’t wanna stick around for the Adams Administration. George Washington is the only one I’ll tolerate.”

“I didn’t know you were so opinionated on the presidents of the United States, seeing as we don’t live there.”

John scratched his neck and shrugged, overly nonchalant. “I may have been a little obsessed with them in primary school. The whole democracy thing and the idea of fighting for your freedom was very appealing to eleven year old me.”

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, “And now?”

“And now…” John peeked outside to see General Washington sneaking a drink when he was in a meeting. “I like them better as real people.” 

“Interesting.”

“Similarly to you, Mr. God of Deduction.”

“God of Deduction, you say? I was unaware of this nickname.” Sherlock smirked.

“And that is exactly why I don’t say it out loud, you cocky git.” John awkwardly adjusted the sleeves of his uniform. “We should probably go apologise to Hamilton and Laurens.”

Sherlock made a face like he was sucking on a lemon, “But why… I don’t want to move.”

“And why’s that? You’ve got a case to solve, a historical setting perfect for your overdramatic tendencies, and the complete control over a group of men who, to be honest, seem very enamored with you.”

Sherlock tightened his arms around John, “Why, I enjoy having you in my arms John. Even the high of solving a case doesn’t equate to the high of your requited affection.”

John gaped at him for a second. His mind was screaming ’Am I the equivalent of ‘it’s Christmas’ now?’ He didn’t know. “Sherlock, you’re married to your work. Surely I’m not as important.” 

Sherlock chuckled reverently. “Oh, John. I do believe at the time I told you I was married to my work, you were convinced you were straighter than a pole. I wasn’t aware you were so open to marriage proposals.”

John smirked and ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I’m about as straight as your hair, as I’m glad to say I now know. As for the marriage thing, let’s wait until we’re out of this drug induced coma you put us in, yeah?”

Sherlock looked guiltily at John, continuously floored by his kindness and unending forgiveness for Sherlock’s failures.

“John… You shouldn’t have to go through this because I am weak. I apologize.”

John’s gaze hardened and he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You’re not weak. You’re trying. That’s just as strong to me as you faking your death so that Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and I could be safe. So stop apologising. You fucked up. Get over it. I’m not mad anymore.”

Sherlock bowed his head, “You’re too kind, John.”

“Damn right.” John smiled at him. 

John snuggled closer to Sherlock, and they fell into a peaceful slumber.

Lafayette chose that moment to burst in and yell, “THIRTY TWO THOUSAND TROOPS ON THE WATER, GET YOUR ASSES UP, YOU DETECTIVES!”

John awoke violently, rolling off the cot in his panic. Sherlock, on the other hand, shot up gracefully and helped John off the ground.

Lafayette grinned. “Enjoying your nap, amours?” 

 

“Bien sur, mon ami. J’attendais trois ans pour John. Enfin!” Of course, my friend! I waited for John for 3 years. Finally!

John stared at them blankly. “What?”

Sherlock and Lafayette shared a knowing look, but Sherlock waved John off. 

“Nothing John.”

“Ok?” John raised an eyebrow at Lafayette. “So, what’s the plan?” 

Lafayette shrugged. “Go in, destroy the enemy, get out.” 

John raised the other eyebrow at Laf, “Vague.”

Laf smiled. “I know, that’s why I love it! Hamilton will probably have a plan. Not to worry. I tend to think on my feet.” 

“So I assume Hamilton’s the one in charge?” John asked.

“Nope. He has yet to prove himself, as all of us do.” Lafayette seemed overly casual about this. 

“And yet, you rely on him for a plan?” Sherlock inquired.

“Not rely, mon ami. More like I can count on him if needed.” He responded.

”Tu es fou, Monsieur Lafayette. Tu as besoin d'utiliser ton tête. J’aime Monsieur Hamilton, oui, mais il est jeune et il n’a pas l'expérience. Pourquoi tu lui fait confidence?” You’re crazy, Mr. Lafayette. You need to use your head. I love Mr. Hamilton, yes, but he is young and he doesn’t have the experience. Why do you trust him?

Lafayette looked affronted at this. “Parce qu’il est notre meilleur l’espoir.” Because he’s our best hope. 

John looked confused. “What about the General?” 

“Hamilton has spunk, a plan, perhaps a little more courage and an instinct not to follow Congress’s orders. He is more popular among the soldiers. The General has trouble getting them to listen to him.” Lafayette replied, seemingly unfazed by this complete lack of an organised and efficient military.

John was looking between this exchange, perplexed by the continuous switching between English and French.

“Bien. Ou est l’armee?” Alright. Where is your army?

“L’exterieur. We ride for Kips’ Bay in an hour. Get ready.” Lafayette muttered to himself on the way out, “Now we have two Laurenses and two Hamiltons.”

John turned to Sherlock. “The fuck?”

Sherlock put on his coat. “The game, John, is on.” And with that, he swept out the door. 

John threw up his hands in exasperation, muttering to himself, “Game is on, bloody game.” Much less grandly, he followed Sherlock outside, still muttering and shaking his head.


End file.
